AWAKENING PART 7A

Day 9; 0043 (Early Morning)

Focus: 513

Staring up at the sky, 513 contemplated about the wonders this new world had to offer him. Mysteries that lay beyond the forest’s dread thickets and suffocating canopies; a world filled with awe, not of constant death.

Feeling reminiscent, he looked back at a time where he had the opportunity to gaze at the night’s offerings -- at her beauty -- only to realize that he had squandered such a rare experience in his haste to find suitable shelter; his fight for survival had eclipsed his ability to appreciate nature, to appreciate life.

513: “I can’t keep running. This isn’t living.”

He mumbled to himself, dazed and unmotivated.

Closing his eyes, he imagined a sky, vibrant with color -- one packed with too many stars to count; a sky with exotic planets and speckled moons -- the bright, luminous glow of their surface, shining far in the distance. He pictured an alien world, a fantastical world of escape, like a lavender rose -- lovely and enchanting.

513: *sigh* “If only.”

He sighed lethargically, speaking of things he wished for.

After a while, he opened his eyes, half-hoping that his imagination would spill into the real world. Instead, what came to the forefront of his vision, was a feature that betrayed his weak-hearted expectations; his lonely gaze was met by the dark and gloomy smog that loomed overhead like a constricting, formless mass.

513: “Damn it.”

He cursed silently under a hefty breath, disappointed in reality.

With a twitch of his left eye -- a sign of tired frustration -- he scanned the grey expanse of the murky cloud floating above him. [Without any wind, this thing will linger for days, maybe even weeks.] He deduced.

Still moody, he continued to grumble his frustrations to himself, all while the temperature of the forest dropped to freezing.

The cold chill of the night air playfully pricked at his exposed skin, causing his teeth to chatter violently inside his tightly-closed mouth. Only after biting his own tongue, did he snap out of his musings.

By the time he realized the situation he was in, his skin had already grown pale -- the night’s icy grasp had taken effect. [Is it that time already?] He questioned. [At least this should keep me awake.] He continued, as he curled up into a small ball to conserve heat.

The morning chill was not new to 513. He had been exposed to its frigid treatment from the very start, since his arrival.

He tried to combat the cold in the past, doing everything he could to keep warm and generate heat. Unfortunately, the natural shelters he used to hide from predators during the night had always been damp and moist. In truth, having no other alternative to keep himself completely dry, he found that he was better-off exposing himself to the cold.

As painful as it may have been for him, he stoically suffered through the nights, knowing that it would take more than a brief chill to kill him. The only takeaway he received from such an experience was the following: that this world had seasons.

Drops in temperature; morning fog; spotty weather; grey overcast -- all of it pointed to a transitional season like autumn; a conclusion 513 had settled-on after some deliberation.

It was the type of information that he dreaded; after autumn, comes winter -- a season he clearly was not prepared for.

As time passed, the muffled chattering of 513’s teeth, melded into the eerie silence of the cold, dark environment. Its muted sound created an atmosphere of desolation and melancholy. A perfect fit for the dismal landscape of his new residence.

The new home he took shelter in was surprisingly deep within the fractured lands of the battlezone -- or what he referred to as the dead zone. It was a clump of land void of most life, resulting from complete annihilation and abandonment; an area scarred by the battle; a zone left in a state of decay.

More time passed and the temperature in the forest continued to plummet. At this point, the chattering of 513’s teeth grew deathly silent, almost inaudible; his body, cold; his eyes, sealed shut.

*SNAP* *SMACK*

Losing consciousness, his hands grew limp, releasing a tensioned twig from his grasp. The twig, which was coiled like a mousetrap, sprung forward once it was released, and smacked him in the face.

513: “Gah, fuck…”

He cried out as he quickly uncurled himself from his huddle, rubbing the top of his forehead where a welt had formed. [Shit. I dozed off again.] He admitted. [Good thing I thought ahead.] He continued, while looking at the twig that had just smacked his face.

The look of relief on his face quickly soured as he considered what would have happened if he remained asleep.

513: “No, not yet. I’m not ready yet.”

He grumbled.

Taking a few moments to regain his bearings, he stretched out his hands and rubbed them together, warming them up.

513: “Uueeoh.”

Letting out a woeful yawn, he sat himself up and stared blankly at the ground. His vision was unfocused and his head felt like a balloon, but he was determined to maintain the course -- he was dead set on staying awake. [Just a little longer.] He told himself.

He had been delaying his return to the world of dreams -- a lucid landscape where he was subjected to reliving the traumas and memories of strangers from the past; of people he did not know. It was a mechanism he had come to accept as a necessary cost for healing the mortal wounds he had -- and will -- sustain during his journey through the forest; a cost he foresaw to be frequent in nature.

Linking the two phenomena together came naturally after sustaining deathly injuries for a second time.

The damage he sustained from the ground spikes, during his escape from the battlefield, was more severe than the helical wound he received from the funnelhead monster. In both scenarios, he fell deep into slumber, entering the dreamscape of tragedies.

It was only after waking up did he connect the two peculiarities together; in both cases, he found that his wounds had drastically healed over the course of only a few hours, but only when he relived the traumas of strangers.

It had also become apparent to him that the healing process required several days to complete -- something he was reluctant to continue in his current state.

His choice to stay awake was not out of fear, but mental fatigue. He knew his mind would have broken if he continued with the healing process; if he continued to relive the memories. So, he forced himself to postpone returning to the dreamscape, to give his mind enough time to sort things out -- to settle down. After all, he still had to deal with his own issues.

Unsure with how to move forward with his predicament, he slumped his shoulders and leaned back against the tree stump he had turned into his temporary home. [Clear your mind. Think of nothing.] He chanted to himself, while tilting his head towards the skies.

513: “Phooo.”

Exhaling through his mouth, he watched the warm vapors of his barely visible breath float up towards the grey layer of smog that had replaced the once expansive canopy of tree branches.

513: “Still there, huh?”

He exclaimed. Disappointed that he was still looking at an unchanged, smog-filled sky.

As his eyes wandered around, a light, stifling breeze passed through his location, bringing with it the aroma of smoke and burnt plant matter. [Hmm.] He contemplated. [The fires have started again.]

The dull, grey skies came to life as faint hues of yellows and reds illuminated the wispy strands of smoke floating in the stagnant air. [If this fire gets large enough, it may generate enough warm air to promote cloud formation.] 513 analyzed. [Which would mean rain...and considering the amount of particulates in the air, lightning.]

513: “That should get rid of this canopy of smoke.”

He spoke-out, satisfied with his analysis.

513: “If that’s the case, I need to make use of the time I have.”

He continued, speaking with stern determination.

Now invigorated with a simple goal on his mind, the fatigue that had been drowning him for most of the night, disappeared -- his focus was now fully in-tune with a necessary distraction.

While waiting for the light of the fires to grow bright enough to see his way around the forest, he warmed-up the rest of his body by rocking his torso back-and-forth, stomping the ground with his feet, and swinging his arms around in circles. [Seriously, what is wrong with me.] He complained. [Why don’t I shiver? My teeth chatter when I’m cold, yet the rest of my body does nothing...this is stupid.] He continued -- the loss of fatigue giving rise to irritation. [Fuck it, I’ll make this work.]

With his body warmed-up, 513 stood-up from where he sat, and used the residual light of the fires to guide him towards a shallow pit he dug the previous day. [There it is.] He reassured himself, as he marched towards the pit, just a few meters away. [Back to work.]

---Chapter End